


Pancakes

by vanillafluffy



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), The Three Investigators | Die drei ??? - Various Authors
Genre: Curtain Fic, Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 22:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11883708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: There's nothing like visiting the Reid-Jones residence for the first time to liven up a Saturday morning. JJ and Garcia take the tour.





	Pancakes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taryn (Hermit)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Taryn+%28Hermit%29).



> Set a few weeks after "In Lieu of a Blanket Fort".

It’s an absolutely glorious June morning. Not just because it’s sunny and Saturday, but because JJ actually has a day off that’s _all hers_. Will is home with the kids, and she doesn’t have to be back until bedtime. Bliss! She has plans to shop for clothes (which bores her offspring to literal tears) and possibly look for a gift for a friend’s wedding--at the kind of store where an exuberant child can wreak havok in seconds. The day is filled with possibilities!

Her optimism crashes to a halt when she has to slam on her brakes to avoid someone who whips out of a parking space without looking. Her caramel mocha Frappachino goes everywhere. 

She’s twenty minutes away from home, and she knows, knows perfectly well if she goes back now, she’ll get sucked in. Oh, not on purpose, but Henry will want her to find some cherished toy, Will will want to ask her about her reciepts--he’s working on accounts today--and Amelia will see her and start screaming when she tries to leave again.

 _I’m going to phone a friend,_ she thinks, and calls Garcia. She’s not too far away, compared to home, and Penelope will understand--and maybe come along as a shopping buddy.

“i’m not home,” says the Digital Goddess of the Beltway. “I’m over at Jupe and Reid’s new place--you’ve got to come check it out, it’s awesome!”

There’s a pause; she must be on speaker, because Spence’s husband speaks up. “JJ? Come on over, we’d love to show you our home sweet home. I’m sure we can spare a shirt while yours is in the wash. No extra charge for brunch!” He gives clear, concise directions. 

She’s actually right in the neighborhood, although if it weren’t for Garcia’s Cadillac parked out front, she would’ve driven right past the red brick building that looks more like a factory than a home.

Penelope opens the front door for her. There’s a buzzer beside it with a small metal plaque discretely engraved “Reid-Jones”. Inside is a loading dock. Several vehicles, including Spencer’s Volvo are parked there. Eight steps brings them up to the main level, most of which is cordoned off by a chalkboard-green wall.

“Wait til you see it, this place is amazing! And Jupe is making pancakes!” Garcia prances toward the back corner of the vuilding, where there’s an old freight elevator.

JJ eyes her. “Pancakes? Really? Spencer hates pancakes.”

Garcia slides the metal accordion doors closed. “He could have fooled me. He’s, like, eating his weight in pancakes and I don’t blame him because they’re ultra-yummy!”

On the second floor, there are white walls on three sides of the elevator. Straight ahead is more wall, this section a Pollock-style work, mostly purples and greens. 

“This way!” Garcia moves confidently to the right, and JJ follows. Something _does_ smell good, but she doesn’t associate the aroma with pancakes. It smells more like…apple turnovers?

There’s a--she supposes it’s an entryway or foyer, but it’s big enough to be a room in it’s own right. JJ stops to look. There’s a bench and coat-rack against the white wall beside the elevator Opposite the Pollock wall is an expanse of red brick--apparently that’s an outer wall--and a big sign dominates it: “Welcome to Reid-Jones”.

“Welcome” is scripted in black letters on a faded yellow boomerang. “To” is plain caps in black on a chipped white board, much smaller than the rest. “Reid-Jones” has been assembled out of various letter sizes and fonts, like ransom notes from old stories.

The sign is dramatic, but after a few seconds study, JJ’s attention turns to the final wall, which shows the same ingenuity as the “ransom note” sign on a much bigger scale. Furniture has been assembled like a jigsaw puzzle. The base is drawers, at least a dozen of them in a custom housing, no two alike--different sizes and shapes, varied hardware. Above them are still more drawers, mounted to the wall like shadow boxes, some with scraps of paper stuck to their backs, one with a childish scribble of blue crayon.

“Come on!” says Garcia, and leads her into the kitchen where the Jones half of Reid-Jones is whisking something in a metal bowl.

The overhead fixture looks like an octopus, multiple flexible light cones that can be adjusted to illuminte various areas of the roomy kitchen. It looms over a stainless steel table--that can’t really be an autopsy table, can it?!--giving the impression that a mad scientist cooks here.

“Penelope, I’m surprised at you!” Jupiter says with mock-severity. “Let the poor woman get cleaned up first!” His look at JJ is sympathetic. “There’s a clean tee shirt waiting for you in the restroom. If you want to rinse that one out, I’ll be happy to throw it in the dryer for you.”

“I’ll show you where it is!” Garcia says with a snappy salute to Jupiter.

They retrace their steps the length of the Pollack wall, which JJ realizes _isn’t_ a mural of modern art, but a running series of drop-cloths secured to a line overhead with binder clips.

“Through here….” 

There’s a seating area with an armchair and a couch. At one end of the couch is a door with gold numbers labeling it “100”. Garcia pushes this open, and sure enough, it’s a restroom. Its industrial origins are clear. It still has stalls, the overhead lights are fluorescent--but the sinks have been replaced with a handsome double vanity, and the sconces above it are classic Art Deco.

As promised, there’s a tee shirt on the counter-top. JJ sheds her sticky blouse, and wipes herself off with a washcloth her host has thoughtfully provided. The tee is lime green and bears the logo “Ron Jon Surf Shop”. It’s too small for Jupiter, but she can’t imagine Reid wearing it, either.

With the familiarity of their long-time friendship, Garcia hovers. “In there, there’s a ginormous shower, and a hot tub!” She’s pointing at a door beside the vanity that’s labeled (with the same gold numerals) 100.2.0. “Lucky Reid, it’s like coming home to a spa!”

The second room is downright sybaritic; Garcia cheerfully points out the amenities. JJ wishes she could banish the mental image it evokes of Spencer and Jupiter frolicking amid the bubbles.

When they get back to the kitchen, Jupe presents her with a tall insulated tumbler, whipped cream rising above its contents. Investigation reveals a coffee-based milkshake laced with dark chocolate and salted caramel. It easily rivals Starbucks, and she gives a happy little moan in spite of herself.

Jupe smiles. “Have a seat, I’ll rustle you up a short-stack of pancakes. Yes, and more for you, Miss Penelope.” It’s a little like the way Derek banters with her. Or maybe he’s just responding in kind to Garcia’s natural sass. 

Beyond the kitchen is a breakfast nook, where Spencer sits on a bench under the large windows that run fron side to side across the second floor. He’s ensconced with a cup of coffee, an empty plate, and a stack of newspapers on either side of him. He glances up, finger marking his place. “Hi, JJ.”

“Hi, yourself. Sorry to crash your day off, but it was an emergency.”

“No problem. We don’t have any plans, so you aren't interrupting anything.” He glances down and turns a page.

“Wait til you try these pancakes,” Garcia says, sliding onto a padded banquette against the brick wall. That leaves a pair of chairs facing the windows; JJ takes a seat which looks toward the tree-lined street beyond the cul-de-sac.

Spencer scans at the back page of the paper he’s studying, and moves it with finality to the lefthand stack. “Would you care for something to read?” he asks, as if realizing that his monopoly of newsprint may be misconstrued. “I have the _Orlando Sentinel_ , the _Staten Island Advance_ , the--”

“No, that’s fine,” JJ assures him. “I actually got a day all to myself, and I was afraid I was going to have to go home and change, so I’m really glad you guys don’t mind me dropping in like this.”

“Not at all!” says Jupiter, who’s come in with two plates. He presents one to her and one to Garcia. “Glad we could help. How about you, tiger? Up for another stack?”

“Please,” says Reid without looking up. Jupe snags the empty plate on his way out.

“Does he know you hate pancakes?” JJ asks Reid quietly after Jupe returns to the kitchen. She’s had breakfast with him in greasy spoons from Bangor to Laguna Beach, and she’s seen him visibly shudder when his teammates order pancakes. 

“Not Jupe’s pancakes.” He’s got the last paper from the righthand stack on the table in front of him; this one must be a small local rag, because it’s only a few pages, which he goes through in about a minute and a half.

When they’d had to infiltrate a pancake breakfast being held to benefit the family of a murdered firefighter, JJ remembers Spence disposing of his short-stack under the table, gagging, with the comment, “That’s like eating fried cement.” Luckily, the event had been held out-of-doors.

One taste of the golden rounds on her plate, and JJ understands his change of heart. They’re apple-cinnamon-spice--definitely superior to fried cement. They’re even better with apple butter. The yogurt she had four hours ago has definitely worn off. JJ cleans her plate.

“I also make a mean French toast,” Jupe remarks, setting a full plate down in front of his partner. “More, JJ?” She shakes her head. She’s _done_. He settles onto the bench beside Spencer.

“It’s true, he does,” Spence affirms. Then he’s occupied with his breakfast.

Garcia doesn’t quite finish hers, though she’d clearly like to. “Sooo good,” she says, and burps. “Excuse me!”

“That’s a compliment to the cook,” Jupe says. He’s got a cup of black coffee at hand, but that’s all. Maybe the question shows on her face, because Jupe shrugs and confides, “I nibble while I cook. Bad habit. That one tore in half? I’ll finish it off. That one’s a little scorched? That’s okay, I don’t mind. New batch of batter? I’d better have a taste. That’s one of the reasons I’m a runner--otherwise I’d probably weigh 300 pounds.” Garcia opens her mouth to say something, but Jupe clears his throat ominously, and she stops. (JJ has already heard all about Jupiter’s child-actor career as Baby Fatso, so she can guess where _that_ was going.)

“I know the feeling. I taste while I’m cooking, sit down and have dinner, then have a little more while I’m putting away the leftovers.” JJ rolls her eyes, but with all the traveling she does--and all the meals they miss while working tough cases--she’s managed not to gain weight, even after two kids.

“Want the recipe? I can write it out for you. It’s not that hard, you start with the mix in the yellow box, add spices, and apple juice instead of water….”

Delicious as it is, JJ knows if she makes it for her family, Henry will beg for it every day forever. Will may not beg aloud, but his puppy-dog eyes are very effective. Thank goodness, Amelia is too young to articulate her views on the subject. “I’ll pass,” she says, “but you mentioned tossing my blouse in the dryer--if it’s not too much trouble?”

The laundry room is upstairs, it turns out, so an expedition sets forth. Jupe leads her--and Penelope, followed by Reid--along the wall of windows, past the dining room (Its wood-paneled walls are repurposed bowling alley lanes; it’s currently empty save for some chairs. Jupe explains he’s still trying to find a suitable table.) through an L-shaped space featuring eight-foot high shelves on two sides. None of the shelves is completely filled--there’s ample room for expansion. At the far end, opposite the breakfast nook is a vast two-sided desk.

Above the desk is a three-foot square canvas, showing an old blue truck with the hood up. A figure bends over the engine compartment, visible as a pair of faded coveralls and a hand brandishing a dull silver wrench. In the foreground, chickens peck around the mechanic’s feet and the truck’s tires.

“I spotted it in a gallery,” Jupe says, “and I kept going back to see it. I finally just said the hell with it and bought the damn thing. It may wind up in a guest room, but for now--”

“For now,” Reid replies dryly. “Until you find the next thing.”

“My husband has the entirely erroneous idea that I’m a hoarder,” Jupiter informs them with pained dignity. “You may have noticed the free-form storage wall in the foyer--that came together a little at a time; it didn’t happen overnight. Meanwhile, the components were upstairs--”

“And there’s still approximately four hundred fifty square feet of clutter left--”

“Because I’m not done with the guest rooms yet! I haven’t even _started_ on the guest rooms!”

There’s some good-natured wrangling between the couple, as they parallel the other brick wall and encounter an extraordinary bed. A four-poster bed made out of telephone poles and draped in camouflage netting? “I’m that much closer to having seen everything,” she murmurs to herself.

“Show her the lights!” Garcia chirps. Jupe reaches behind one of the posts and does something. “Look!”

There are white Christmas lights above the netting. _Of course there are. How does Jupiter come up with this stuff?!_ “Wow. We’d better not show Henry this or you’ll never get him out of here.”

Jupe laughs. “He’s already seen it. In fact, he saw it before Spence did. Will brought him over when he came to give me a hand with the bed-raising. Believe me, I needed help to get those poles bolted in place! It took me and four other guys, and while we worked, Henry kept busy with a bucketful of toys I provided. Once it was all set up, he came over and admired it, and ended up taking a nap on it while I arranged the canopy.”

"Toys?" Garcia looks interested, maybe imagining her cubicle on a grand scale. “I haven’t seen any toys.”

“They’re tucked away for next time.” Jupe glances toward the far side of the space, and JJ recalls the plethora of drawers in the foyer. “They’re nothing fancy, just things I picked up at sales here and there…which applies to most of this stuff, really. I grew up at a salvage yard, remember, and I hate to see things trashed that still have some use in them. Trees died to make all that furniture!”

“I agree in theory,” Spence begins “but where do you draw the line?”

“Laundry?” she says, because this is the kind of old-married-couple bickering she and Will get into sometimes, and it can go on and on if nothing interrupts it.

“Of course--right this way. Mind the his-and-his wardrobes on your left, those were originally piano crates. Up the stairs here--eventually, this is going to be guest rooms; right now I’m still concentrating on getting the main floor livable. We really need a dining table so we can entertain.”

That hospitality is definitely something to look forward to. The BAU still talks about the Thanksgiving feast Jupe hosted a couple years ago. 

The top floor is an open space ringed with offices and boasting a variety of furniture. The laundry room is along the back wall. In a minute, JJ’s blouse is spinning in the dryer. Garcia insists on the full tour, and JJ is curious, too.

There’s an empty conference room, above the kitchen, if her grasp of the floor-plan is right. The front of the building has offices with windows--that matches her mental image of the street view of Reid-Jones. There were probably the names of their occupants beside each door, but the slots now have plaques engraved with Alpha, Bravo, Charlie and so on, down to Foxtrot.

“I want this one!” Garcia exclaims. “In pink. Please?”

“Why _that_ one?” Spencer wants to know.

“Because it’s Delta, like Delta Burke.”

“Can’t argue with that logic,” Jupe chuckles. “I don’t promise wall-to-wall pink, but I’ll see what I can do.”

As they skirt the perimeter, peeking into the mostly empty offices, JJ has time to scan the furniture clustered in pods in the center of the floor. It’s loosely sorted by type of items: desks, headboards, nightstands, more dressers. Some of them have missing drawers, but having witnessed Jupiter’s ingenuity, she doesn’t doubt that they’ll be creatively repurposed. A few pieces are sets, or at least similar in style--there’s a very nice mid-century grouping--but most of it is random.

“What’s down there?” Garcia wants to know once they’ve finished their perusal of the third floor and have returned to the main level. She’s looking at the other side of the staircase that descends to ground level.

Jupiter and Spencer exchange glances, smiling. “That’s going to be the game room,” Jupe says. “It’s still a work in progress, but we can take a look if you like.”

Just from the contents occupying the space, it’s going to be amazing. There’s a lunch counter, complete with an ancient menu-board on the back wall promising 15-cent hot dogs, among other things. A Xenon pinball machine and a Ms. Pac-Man game are side-by-side against the back wall. The jukebox is a space-age refugee from the 60’s, glittery silver panels surrounded by chrome. And there’s a pool table. Not just any pool table, but--wait for it--a pool table with clawed feet, covered in leopard print felt. 

Penelope is ecstatic. Her delight only increases when Jupe shows her how to open the Gulf gas pump that houses the balls, cues and other accoutrements. “Perhaps you ladies would enjoy a game while your blouse finishes drying?” he suggests. “While you’re doing that, I'll go clean up the kitchen.”

Garcia beats her twice before Jupe comes back with her now-presentable shirt. Spencer has wandered off somewhere--he probably has his nose in a book.

“This place is fantastic,” she tells him warmly. 

Jupe wears a pleased grin. “Come by any time. Bring the family. I’ll make pancakes.”

 

…


End file.
